Parasite
by Sam-Sam-Samedi
Summary: Kenny finds his way back to that town, and keeps hearing “the world is a milieu built of only gods and suckers.” In delusions and dreams, the past is eternal, and the obsession alive. Multi-chapter fic; rated T for now. ON HIATUS.
1. The Past is a paradise garden

**Title**: Parasite

**Summary: **Kenny finds his way back to that town, and keeps hearing "the world is a milieu built of only gods and suckers." In delusions and dreams, the past is eternal, and the obsession alive. [Multi-chapter fic; Kyle centric.]

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_AN_: :D I have nothing to say here. (That's a first.) You'd think there would be some law against the use of a drugged-up Kenny, but he's the most prone to self-destructive behavior, and easily within range of drugs. D: I don't know if it is a cliché or a trademark of normalcy, which is, in some respects, truly terrible for his character.

. . . All disclaimers are acknowledged. Oh, and the chapter starts out with a flashback some two years prior.

* * *

_The car, black as midnight, rippled up the pavement and shuddered to silence around him. Back alleys in front of the abandoned bar writhed in his near-drunken stupor, witness to his isolation, as the driver's shades-- their dark surface bending moonlight-- whispered of style and tinted glass. The doors cracked open, timeless rock and roll waxing their praises in a hymn of slurring language and lyric. He was the foreigner, representative of the wealthy and lost on their broken streets, its lamp light strangled with age and close to death. His suit was open at the collar, completing the forgotten image with a soft, rounded face and a mane of cheerful brown hair. The eyes, sharp and pervasive, glistened inky black beneath the shadow, and pictures whirled in and out of focus while the memories burned red beneath a poor man's puzzled stare._

_His situation must have been pitiful: he was thrown from his man-made sanctuary--- holistic in that it was haunted by whispers of cynicism and the scent of alcohol, but he returned to it all the same-- to the dust and concrete, left to rot in a pile of limbs. Each blurred corner slowly hazed to clarity, the customary, urban decay a painful echo of failed edicts and vows not to fuck up. "Kenny?" The voice was ancient; not in its tone or years, but nostalgia, "I didn't expect to see you. Come on, get in-- it's not like you've seen anything like this before. Trust me, you'll love it." The dirt was his villain, kept at bay in the midst of childhood pride: __'__**be clean, and you are no ones mirror. No fathers here**__.' __Forever the cosmic joke, Kenny McCormick was a spoiled man these days._

_He managed to stand, and replaced his too-old, weary mask with a Cheshire grin. Kindness was a welcome escape, thus he gathered himself from hell's rose path, and melted into the perfect, unfamiliar gray of would-be Edens._

* * *

Porch lights darted in the afar, trapped in evening dark like forgotten stars; their owners came into focus, cookie-cutter houses dressed in crisp paint with bronze numbers tacked to their walls, but no personality. Dirty blond spilled past his face and barely brushed his shoulders, a natural impassivity in his hazy blue-gray stare as he dug his hands into his black leather jacket. Snow dripped from the gutters, its white dusted earthy brown, and whimpered beneath his boots as he made his way across the street and abandoned the safety of the lamplight. His target was an olive two-story on the far side of their would-be avenue, standing still and unchanged, as if stolen from a photograph.

He sifted through his coat pockets, the cigarettes heavy against his waist, and pulled the Camels free in a fit of nerves. His finger found the lighter—a vestige of his youth, colored orange and crimson— and he clicked it in a gauche chain before the fire waltzed up.

". . . Shit," he muttered darkly, tentative and in no hurry to find his way to the door bell. _''No time like the present' my ass.'_ It sang somewhere inside, Kenny spectator to a series of jarring, high-pitched croaks followed by intense silence.

_'. . . Maybe I missed him.' _He shivered as the lock clicked into place, shadows trembling behind the frosted windows, and recognized that some part of him wanted to run.

"_—_Yeah?" The sensation of a changing world forced him to take another drag, long and profound. He remembered all the blurred lines of adolescence, and only saw him as soft and rose-colored, caught in the midst of growth. Kenny understood that they _weren't _fifteen anymore, but he didn't have an imagination near colorful enough to mimic reality. Kyle's face was sharp, the features distinct as if cut from marble, with a mop of auburn curls tumbling past his neck and jaw line. He was taller than him by a well-rounded two inches or so, dressed in jeans, some olivine hoodie, and a gray t-shirt. He carried an over-hanging sense of lethargy, but he had the same stinging clarity in his eyes, colored electric brown with amber sparking at the capillary zone.

"God, it _has _been awhile," it was said to no one, Kyle arching an eyebrow, ". . . Man."

"Ah, great—" his cynicism was cut short, Kenny exhaling another cloud's worth of smoke.

"I'm Kenny," the validation rolled awkwardly off his tongue; he'd never expected to see South Park, let alone Kyle, again.

He was slow to process that an old friend was in his doorway, and examined him critically before deeming his claim legitimate, ". . . Hey, if you say so. No one would lie about being a McCormick." Kenny forced a weak smile, and Kyle, his discomfort obvious, motioned for him to come in. It was ethereal, the furniture scattered in new places and colored an array of different shades—turquoise blue seemed to be the focal point, splashed everywhere in bursts. He slumped against the wall, slipping to the floor in broken resignation, and knew that he didn't have the heart to acknowledge all the forgotten history they had.

"Sorry for coming unannounced," he let his eyes glass over, thinking of the empty room somewhere up the stairs and to the right.

"Believe me. _This_ is the least of my problems," Kyle growled, closing him off from the rest of the world, "Damn, I let the heat out. What's up?"

"I don't know," he drawled sardonically, "Being a shithead. And yourself?"

He was exasperated, and dropped into a spacious, cushioned couch, "A ten-year disappearing act is low, Kenny. If you have something to tell me, I'm willing to hear."

"I've been high for who knows how long," Kyle managed an indolent turn of the head, and Kenny traced patterns in the tile, "It'd be a miracle if I remembered."

"No qualms with the past, present, or future," he countered morosely, "I'd love to be you."

"No, you wouldn't," he said warmly, Kyle smirking at their shared antipathy—it was familiar.

"Doing drugs was a choice," he finished coolly, spreading himself out on the loveseat like a cat, "I told you back then: 'if this is what you want, I won't be stopping you'."

"'Forty days won't break a man'," Kenny spoke to the linoleum, his voice empty, "'it was the bullet in his head'. It gave me a job, and a second fucked up family-- an escape."

"Addiction is a benign prison," Kyle's honesty could have left him bleeding on his doorstep, and Kenny watched soullessly as he drifted in and out of sympathy, ". . . Why did you believe in that fucker Kevin?"

Kenny turned his head away, the movement uncomfortable albeit brief, and knew himself a victim of circumstance and the misplaced calumniations of society, ". . . He paid my fee. Got my drugs." He listened to the wind whistle tunes in the low grass behind the windows, unnerved as their dead conversation festered and became a thing worthy of disgust. Kyle had memories of how he fell apart in high school, barely above reproach as an active associate of the suburban drug trade addicted to his own "business". Kenny recalled that, at some time in his sophomore year, he'd stopped coming completely and readily gave up all claims to a clean slate. Maybe, he mused, there was sympathy enough to let him go quietly—or, simpler still, that nothing was in their childhood world of four by then.

He strained to see beyond the harsh white walls, and wished he'd took Kevin's, "don't play with the merchandise" more seriously; as a dealer, he should have known that all real bosses have their partners tied to them in more ways then one. _'If they are stupid enough to refuse their bread, then let them have coke—they'll come back faster and with tribute to pay. It's a sin to leave a sucker with his money, and every man is a loser in disguise, even our own.'_ Kenny thought of it as a doctrine for the greedy.

". . . I . . ." Kyle couldn't invent any condolences, and Kenny took it as reaffirmation that personalities change very little over the years. _'Trust me; I don't deserve your understanding.'_ The shame alone was enough to make him choke on Kyle's words.

"Don't waste your breath on me," he said stiffly, unable to meet his eyes, "I had a hell of a time getting back here, but, like you said, druggies don't just 'drop in'. Besides, we can't say if I would've been worth much or not, you know."

He was quiet for a moment, and then managed an immaculately understanding, "Yeah." Having seen many ironies of the human condition both opted to believe that you can't tell a man how to live out his tragedies. There was beauty in letting certain things die, and Kenny wondered if either of them knew just how much. "The past's long dead."

". . . It's about your bro," Kyle's face twitched below the façade, and Kenny knew enough to realize that freshly buried emotions were resurfacing. Regretting the past indeed. He searched for the strength in his guilt, a numbed sense of obligation stringing the words together, "He's—I ran into him a while back; the kid was hanging around in Denver."

"Oh," was Kyle's transitory reply, pained even in its attempt at disregard.

"He looked messed up," he murmured to the floor, his voice brusque despite his efforts to be gentle, "I didn't know he was the same guy at first." Kyle's response was his echo, the syllables bounding from corner to crevice, but Kenny felt his stare burrow deep into his skin.

His pulse quickened, and he stifled his anxiety, "So I offered to let him stay with me. I knew what it was like to be a runaway—I couldn't forgive myself if I left him on the streets. Not like _that_."

Kyle finally whirled on him, his glare burning, and Kenny shrunk back from his anger, "You asshole! Why the _hell _didn't you fucking call us then?! My ma's in therapy because of—!"

"I hadn't spoken to you in years, man! I figured he'd go back on his own— that he was just having an off month or something!" Disgusted with himself, Kenny couldn't admit that he'd been too afraid to wander back to any ghost towns from ten years prior.

"Goddamnit!" He sneered, pacing the floorboards, and, in Kenny's opinion, keeping admirable control of his anger, "Where is he now?!"

His throat hitched, but he had no mind to force-feed him a sugar coated reply, ". . . He—sort of came with me." The lie was there despite his good intentions.

"What the fuck kind of answer is that?" He spat venom, tone harsh and staccato; Kenny stirred uneasily and felt the weight of every possible evil, his mutters of self-hatred constant reminders. These were the instances he missed being a coward completely immersed in his graven images.

"When I went back to get my fill, Ike—" Kenny began cautiously, "I was still knee-deep in shit then."

The implications registered in quick succession, his expression as lively as falling dominos; Kyle moved through dead shock, shadows of fear, and then found himself lost in something _like _utter repulsion. Kenny couldn't tell if his assumption was built of reflections of himself or honest-to-god reality.

"I think that," Kenny's voice was quaky, because there were no 'maybes' outside of his fantasies, "he got caught up in it."

* * *

**AN:** Moral of the story: Druggies have absolutely_ horrible_ judgment.

. . . Well, yes and no. ;;D: In regards to Kenny, I can't decide or I should laugh or cry for the poor thing. (If I were in Kyle's position, I would be pissed too. But alas, I am an author, and therefore a sadist unable to indulge in sympathy.) On the note of his preoccupation with cleanliness, I always found myself wondering why exactly he's the only well-kept one in his family. :D;

Reviews are greatly appreciated! (Truth be told, I'm a bit nervous as to how the content was handled. D: I could use some feedback.)


	2. Saving somebody's good graces

**Title:** Parasite

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**AN**: I wouldn't say that Kyle is antipathetic necessarily—cynical is probably a safer bet; I was using that wording to emphasize his fic!surface personality. Thank you very much for your feedback, and I'm glad you're enjoying it thus far!

* * *

Kyle grasped the loose material at his collar bone and sent Kenny spiraling toward the wall, "You've got balls coming back here!" He cringed, taking the full brunt of his force, and feeling the air slip from his lungs as he struggled to regain his composure, "Get the hell out of my sight."

"Kyle, I'm sorry, man!" He pleaded with his eyes, and Kyle played the part of the observer, his pity brief but genuine, "Look, if you want to talk, I'll be in that motel down on Miller and Chef's— Room 213— " He rippled to silence and uncertainty, Kyle's snarls cutting him short.

"Just get out!" He barked, the growl as soft as he could manage, and pulled the door ajar; the draft lurked ominously in the halls, Kenny left to stumble amongst the evening black. Gripping the seemingly ageless siding, he shuddered when the lock clicked into place, cruel and furious in its absolute apathy.

* * *

Morning came too soon, sun spilling past the curtains and sending streaks dancing into the shadow, and Kyle writhed in his bed, the room hazing into clarity. Being home always tempted him to sleep into all hours of the day; it must have been ten at the earliest, the clock blinking blue light from his bedside table.

_'Almost eleven—that's not awful. Not really __**good**__, but not awful.' _The house wept peace, and seemed to breathe around him—surging and slipping backwards; he felt he could hear the world from there, and dug into the pillow before deciding that morning was just tough for everyone. _'Anyone else is lying, damnit. Man, I want to __**sleep**__ . . .'_ Kyle forced himself up in a clumsy display, tossing the blankets up and glowering at the doorway, as though it were the cause of his miseries.

He slipped quietly into the bathroom, managed to make himself into something almost presentable—tedious and country. A reflection of the town, but _something_—and meandered, turning his hallway into a forever kind of labyrinth. The light burned fiery white against the house's dreary blues and grays, streaking the carpets like spider webs of cracked glass.

"—It's our son, Gerald—"he felt it connect perfectly, a low and staccato whisper, but it dwindled back to familiarity. Fights were commonplace now, and there were no sanctuaries, and no places to hide. He glanced at the doorway, cracked ajar and looming terrifying as the unknown, before striding to greet it.

"He's not _gone_, Shelia—the police—"his father's woe was transparent. Sometimes, Kyle mused bitterly, he wished he didn't have to hear it.

"Our son, damnit!" He found the courage to glance past the frame, desperate and quiet as death; his mother was gone and Gerald's head buried in his hands, but Kyle had no interest in watching anymore. The halls waxed uncomfortable silence in a heavy ostinato, and he burrowed his hands deep into his coat pockets, choking on his anger; he eyed the front door, a thing of ifs lying in wait at the bottom of the staircase, and fought his way to the ground floor. _'Anywhere's better but here—'_Sounds shattered his reveries and his head shot backwards.

"Kyle?" His dad asked curiously, recovered and playing optimistic for the family. "You're awake?"

He said nothing for a moment, and then forced a grin, "Yeah."

"Isn't it early for a stroll," he was on the verge of laughing, but Kyle figured that neither knew why, "Hey, in South Park, anyway."

"Yeah, nothing's out here—it's completely dead," he felt guilty somewhere in the pit of his guts; the crappy borough was still his home, "Do you guys want me to do anything? I'll probably go out."

"We're old, go and live a little," he said off-handedly from behind a smile, "You need to get back outside again. If you're not at graduate school you're here; we can let you free for a few hours."

Kyle was nervous, tasting the words on his tongue, "What about Ma?" The world was frightening to them both now, and neither could trust the other's absence.

"Sheila'll be fine," he was left to wave his good-byes before he disappeared into the morning chill, suddenly understanding that his father was an old soldier in his own way.

The street was an empty backdrop, interrupted by the occasional mother calling to children somewhere he couldn't see, and Kyle let his eyes wander as the cars whistled past in blurs of color and motion. Snow winked under the sunlight, Kenny's footprints still thick and standing as a keepsake—his first in ten years. To think, he mused to the empty skyline, it was _ten_ years since he finally decided he was truly dead to them.

_'And he comes to tell me this shit. What a way to come back. A damned __**divine comedy**__.' _If God, whatever he was— Jewish, Islamic, Christian; names were a matter of identity claims anyway—, liked to make his puppets gambol, then Kyle could only assume that the destitute were the least entertaining. Theologians and rabbis always said that _He_ didn't have a fondness for sad stories; disaster never fit in with the grand scheme of things. Destruction and depression were religion's true antithesis.

"What the hell is_ this_, eh," it rang against the silence, and Kyle's answer was a brief look of acknowledgement; he didn't have the rage, let alone the energy, "I haven't seen you out in the sun in a while."

"Cartman," was his greeting, the memorable face grinning from the safety of his Sedan. Like decades prior, there was an evocative head of brown hair, sharp eyes, a suit, and an evil indifference masked by surface charm. Every chance meeting tickled the sadist in Eric, thus he made an effort to pull into his mother's driveway, park cautiously—he seemed to believe South Park goers could barely _think_, yet along manage a steering wheel—, and waddle his fat ass to meet him, "I'm not interested."

"'Interest is a matter of convenience'," he said frankly, face blooming into a smirk, "You look good with a sad face; I'd like to meet the lucky ass who put it on you, Kyle."

"Fuck you," the honest, vindictive brutality and pleasure frustrated him more than the slurs. It was sick for anyone to be getting off on another's pain.

"Like there would be anything better than _that_," he expected a retort, and was irate when faced with a thunderous calm, "What's pissing you off, fuck."

"You are," the syllables ran together in his anger, Eric an infringement on his mind and any peace it might have managed, "I already said get lost."

"But when has the world cared about what _you _wanted, Kyle," Eric purred, ridiculing his powerless position. He swallowed the growls and the insults— it was 'Kyle' instead of kike because society liked to pretend it was civilized at the end of the day and, if there was anything Eric knew, it was how to tickle society's fancy. The word didn't feel right enough to tolerate, but the implications didn't feel wrong enough to condemn, and so he found a way to keep his insults unsaid.

Kyle flexed his fingers, focusing all his attention on the creeping suburban horizon. It seemed that, even with the obloquy silenced, Eric could violate him with his Cheshire grins. They were adults now, bound by laws, elastic rhetoric, and freedom of speech. Beating him in the street was no longer a convenient means to vent his stress; it was a public disturbance, and criminal in their small town hub.

Eric—morbidly fascinated with his unspoken refusal to concede—continued with cool amusement, the world forced to a sudden slowdown, "'And Icarus takes a fall.' So, Daedalus, enjoying your imprisonment? "

The return to Kenny left him wondering. "There are worse things," he said, breaking the continuum, and leaving Eric to mask his dissatisfaction.

He laughed, "And then some. All right; fine, Kyle, how's stuff."

"You're loquacious. I won't say," as soon he staged that cocky smirk, Kyle resigned to waiting for Eric to talk over him.

"People like you aren't much for conversation," his good-natured tone was calculated, and had its subtext, "Any funerals? I haven't heard anything about Ike."

"What a crappy joke," Kyle sneered bitterly, losing his tentative control of his temper, "You— bastard."

"He wouldn't be happy knowing that everyone's negative. He had grace—" Kyle cut him short, voice acerbic and dangerous.

"Can't say the same for you," he was disgusted that, once upon a time, Eric had the pleasure of knowing Ike better than _he _did, yet he still managed to remain the same heartless asshole he'd always been.

"It's better to brace yourself for the worse instead of pretending there's some paradise somewhere," he spoke to nothing in particular, calmly shifting through his pockets for his cell phone—it gleamed blue and black as he pulled it free, an intricate new model Kyle had never seen. _'He never gets tired of playing games.'_ There was nothing in Eric that didn't like flashy; he loved status almost as much as he loved power, which was something remarkable in its own right.

". . . Cartman," Kyle struggled to be true to Ike, who would want him to know, "I talked to Kenny."

"Damn!" He breathed, subject to a brief stab of shock or nostalgia, "That poor— he's_ still_ hanging around here?"

"No," it was stiff and methodical, "He was in Denver up until god knows when; who gives a shit."

"What about him?" Eric replied carelessly, browsing through the numbers flashing across the screen, "So he's a piss-all loser. Where's the surprise."

The words lingered on his tongue, but Kyle couldn't fumble anything coherent, ". . . I don't know. I figured, since you guys knew each other once, maybe you'd like to talk to him."

Eric's curiosity piqued, and he looked him over as he broke away to head up his sidewalk and to his mother's door, ". . . So I was dead-on. You should pin a medal on me for being so aware."

Kyle recovered, piecing together his pitiless front, ". . . 213 on Chef and Millers. If you're happy now, stay the hell away from me."

He fractured their shared silence, fingering the knob, ". . . It won't kill me to see him again—after my aunt's hospital visit, I guess."

". . . Give her my regards," Cartman's family was never particularly accommodating or worthwhile, but he'd been treated well whenever their childhood group of four was dragged somewhere for the holidays.

* * *

**AN**: Well, that would be the end of chapter two. :D; Sorry about the wait—writing _Parasite_ isn't really the first thing on my to-do list right now. o: (This was more of a heat-of-the-moment ending. I got the sense, "okay! Stop _here_!" and couldn't shake it. :D;; )


	3. Manmade purgatories

**Title:** Parasite

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**AN:** Hmm, maybe I should mark this up as **AU**; I've totally mind-fucked Kenny, and I feel awful. D: I mean, in this, his life sucks ass—and, to add insult to injury, he plays what is essentially a very limited role here. (I didn't even give him any genuine screen time . . . )

. . ._ and_ I wonder if the chapters are too short. I'm actually quite lazy when you get down to it, and two thousand words seem to max me out. /: After that, my short attention span kicks in, and there's simply no point. ; . . . Ah well. Haha, even if I were to ask for your opinion on this, I'm so pathetic I wouldn't actually . . . uh, do anything. :D;; So, yeah.

And, for those romance chasers! There_ are_ couples in this (some of which are het, but others are not).

Or, at least I_ think_ there are? I'm not much of a romance novelist myself. D:

* * *

The place crumbled at corners and seeped into the dirt, a dead-silent pile of drywall and fraying dreams; onlookers called it a building people avoid, and let rot. "There's always somewhere better," unless the adherent had run dry of pride and caution, left to stay for an adventurous evening of wondering where the deceit of poverty ends.

_'Maybe that's just how motels are.'_ Kyle noted with disgust, having said the same thing about pretty much any cheap shithole he'd had the pleasure of ruing. The off-white walls were stained brown and black, its collection of doors and numbers grayed with age; their knobs sparked orange beneath South Park's gloaming, little more than tricks of the light from the sidewalk.

Partially because he was a smartass, whose sense of humor usually fell slightly off-beat, Ike had made a point of saying "All hope abandon ye who enter here". Kyle remembered that he'd been kicked to the curb for dragging in a shady kid who had an itch to commit arson; burning things in the backyard left them with a lawsuit that Sheila hadn't been able to take. There was something about it that seemed to decompose before his eyes, and he couldn't help a sardonic, _'Something impressively. . ._'

Finding reason to avoid approaching Kenny's door, Kyle opted to instead tread slowly and deliberately. There was a dark tint to two-hundred thirteen, and he rapped the frame, listening as the hollow echo spun away into nothing.

"—Yeah?" Kyle couldn't muster a response, stunned at the fresh bruises that colored his face. They blossomed into swirls of purple and shadowy blacks, leaving his visage a caricature of 'normal'.

". . . What the fuck happened to you?" He breathed, Kenny's nonchalance bringing him back to reality.

"I like rough sex?" He suggested mildly, as though there was a humorous element to his abuse.

"Oh, _clever_. Spare me your sophistry," Kyle growled, stepping lightly into the gloom. The room seemed to sag, a victim of its own neglect; a queen-sized bed ran the far right side, dressed in pristine blankets, and a television cast a navy silhouette.

Kenny plopped down, sinking into the mattress, ". . . I went and saw my mom," Kyle watched as his determination broke beneath his scrutiny, "I liked her. I wanted to talk to Karen, too—see if she remembered her fuck-all older brother."

He couldn't help his stern, albeit considerate reply, ". . . And they beat you up for it."

"I always was somebody's bitch pretty much," it was toneless and pathetic in its absolutes, "_'No son of mine leaves us in the dirt!' _and all this shit about loyalty." Kyle took the seat next to him, trapped in emotional limbo, and decided to keep his hands to himself. Touch was a poor substitute for honest-to-god concern.

Knowing that he didn't have to be seasoned to see the distance in his eyes, he managed an awkward, "Sorry it didn't work out." It was too far-gone—too insane—for him to paint any pictures of Kenny's situation, excusing that Kyle was of the firm opinion that a good man didn't hit family.

"At least it was someone I knew this time," he replied coolly, "I don't really remember it; that's a good sign, I guess."

The carcasses of old beer bottles teased him, and he couldn't swallow his, "Well, you are drinking three twelve packs and schnapps for fun. That's—that much would leave you hammered the _entire fucking day_."

He couldn't help smirking, "In another life, yeah."

"Tch. Was it a happier one?" Kyle murmured darkly, and Kenny made no move to answer him, "That's stuff you drag in from college—and even then, Christ_, _what the _hell_?" Kyle would have called it something worthy of 'social drinking', except by the morning after the entire floor smelled like shit and you wanted to kill the buddy who recommended partying until dawn—and that was if your bed wasn't out on the lawn via some interesting 'twists of fate' and other such euphemisms.

"I don't need sympathizers to drink, do I," his was a simple statement, and said with a flimsy conviction; for Kenny, it was the same as yesterday, "Ah, yeah. Want a bottle?"

He cracked a smile, "Is that your way of showing courtesy?"

"Nah, nah!" Kenny called genially, loosing himself in nostalgia, "That would be the McCormick credo, man. I've told you to get it right."

". . . No," Kyle felt the guilt creeping in, and couldn't force down his anger—they both were being pretentious as hell, "About Ike—"

He shakily got to his feet and ran a restless hand over the glass neck, watching amber flicker white beneath the dying bulb light, ". . . Yeah, him."

There was a lapse of silence, antipathy replacing Kyle's easy-going tolerance, "Call him out like that again, bastard. You'll get more bruises that way."

Kenny softened in tow, offering up an earnest surrender, "Sorry."

"Then don't waste my time," he was toneless and embittered, accustomed to taking the stoic, empty route, "Just—god! What the hell were you thinking?" The hushed, cynical part of him muttered a blunt, _'Probably nothing.'_

"I don't know," there was a certain naivety in his shame, "I thought . . . that, you know, I understood him somehow. He reminded me of myself as a kid—alone, and with a kind of wild, distrusting feeling."

"It wasn't your place to play god and take things into your own hands," he growled from his perch on Kenny's bedside, staring him down as he leaned forward with his arms propped at the knees, "This wasn't about 'protecting your own'. His situation was poles apart."

The sun, slipping below the horizon, cast shadows behind the stark curtains and Kenny found reason to pull them back, ". . . I know that—"

"Bullshit," he interjected sharply, "If you understood you would have made the right decision—or, damn, at least the_ sane_ one— "

"Goddamnit, I know!" He snapped, the shouts lingering in the crevices and standing as a provocative confession, "I shouldn't have put my ass on the line for a spoiled kid, I _know_!"

Kyle took it as affirmation that Kenny felt he was too old to take reprimands from him now. "Fine," he rumbled, his eyes on the off-gray carpet, "Where did you find him at." Kenny approached the details cautiously, his account of the back alleys between Capitol Hill's East Colfax Avenue and Colorado Boulevard a gruesome prelude to Kyle's anger.

"Please, man! I had myself staked on—"he pleaded, eerily sincere and desperate, as though his life was fixed with a timer and laid out in front of him.

"Like hell you did!" The open window was Kenny's only protection, because Kyle refused to let the world outside see him fall from grace.

"I had no money to go after him—I got evicted from my building after he took the cash—"the color drained from his face, Kyle left to fester in his frustration before he wrestled it to quiet.

". . . How much did he take from you?" Kenny turned to meet his gaze, disgruntled beneath his careful game face.

"—What?" He questioned weakly, giving leeway to his skepticism.

"I'll pay you back," Kyle replied crisply, pulling his wallet from its home in his coat pockets and flipping leisurely through the stack of checks. Kenny stirred beneath the thick curtain of tension draped between them, and shook his head.

"I was stupid. Don't worry about it—"he blanched as Kyle cut him off, his voice severe and bordering on impatient.

"What was it?" He would not go home just to brand his younger brother as a thief and an addict; they had too much shared history, too much pride—too much _blood_ between them.

"About two hundred . . . "it trailed to an uneasy silence, the scratches of pen on paper enough to unnerve him, "Come on. You know I'm just going to blow it on booze, don't bother."

"To fucking steal your unemployment money, Christ," he managed through gritted teeth, wrenching the slip from its fellows and handing it grimly to Kenny, who, despite his moral battles, took it without qualm, "Sorry. Really."

". . .Thanks," He tucked it away, left to maneuver their conversation away from pity, "No need to be noble about it though. I can handle myself."

"Of course," Kyle's statement parodied 'benign', insensitive beneath the surface, "And, not dissimilarly, I'll do what _I_ need to."

Kenny couldn't meet his eyes, taking another deep swig, "So you think I'm running in circles, huh."

"Does that matter?" The time between them was brought awkwardly to the forefront, their old rivalries resurfacing, "It's your life—not mine, and _not_ Ike's." He rose to his feet and stalked the length of the room, making for the escape hiding behind the doorway.

Kenny's voice was broken, coarse and barely above a whisper, "It was hard on me, Kyle." There was no motion from either, the air alive with electricity and feeling, as he offered muted pretense. He had left them—blown them off, and fucked himself, along with all those who wasted time thinking about him. Kyle knew that he wasn't able to stand hearing it anymore.

"I mean," he added bitterly, resigned to personal decadence, "I can't even _die_ right, man. What the hell is that."

Kyle hesitated and thought on something kinder, but only managed a black, "What's your phone number? I need it." Days, weeks,_ years_ from now he would say a prayer for him, but there was no practicality in staying between heaven and hell. The dead leave behind their phantoms, after all.

* * *

**AN**: Sorry, not a great chapter. For the moment, know that I am glossing over the geographical statistics and technicalities because I am unfamiliar with them. It would be inexcusable if I screwed with something so . . . simple, and I don't want to mess with street names right now. But ah! The city looks _very _pretty in its photographs—obviously, I have never been.

. . . I'm sorry for being so inept. )": Hey, at least I can use the pretty-reliable Wikipedia. That's something. (Also: who names a street 'Corona'? Oh well, whatever.) Oh, yeah. D: I'll get out of this mockery of a Christian mindset soon, but I have to do quite a bit of research first, so bare with me for now!


End file.
